FR3AK
by Blitzqueen
Summary: Ever been curious as to why Blitzwing has three personalities? Faces? Here is my own headcanon of such event; of things that changed our tri-faced Triple-Changer's life completely; memories so dark, so twisted, that it is a wonder he still functions. [needs rewritten; currently discontinued]
1. Memory 001

**Warning, This Story May Contain The Following:**

 _Violence\Gore, Physical\Verbal Abuse, Torture, Mental\Emotional Trauma, Angst, Alcohol, Addiction, Psychotic Thoughts or Actions, Schizophrenic Tendencies_

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 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers or Blitzwing [if I did, I would be one happy fangirl]; I _do_ however own the story and this particular history for him and the fragger currently tearing him apart.

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 _ **Searching Memory-Banks…**_

 _ **…Loading File…**_

 _ **Begin**_

 _The room is lit only very dimly._

 _Dark, hungry shadows lap at its edges; waiting to consume whatever may come too close, reaching out to try and swallow that last bit of light, but never able to come close enough to do so. But, every so often, the single light within the center of the room will flicker, as if the devouring blackness is finally getting to it, before that last little bit of light is able to fight back, to keep that inky darkness at bay._

 _This weak light penetrates through some of these shadows, pushing them away from metal carts and tools; glinting off, slicing into the darkness in an attempt to slay it or at least keep it from creeping any further into the small room. The light, despite how weakly it radiates, refuses to give in to the dark evil trying desperately to close in on it. It fights to remain lit, it fights to keep those waiting, ravenous jaws from clamping down over it._

 _That single light, fighting to remain on, shines down upon a single form shackled to a berth. The small form held fast at the ankles, wrists, and forehead. That light, though dim, reflects brilliantly off of dark blue plating, accented by orange and red. It sends shimmering shafts across the walls, forcing the deadly blackness to flee from any place it touches. The room remains in eerie silence as the two forces battle; still does the dark overpower the light, but the light refuses to go out._

 _It brightens for but a moment; the shadows skittering across the floor, walls, and ceiling; trying desperately to find a place to hide, before continuing their assault as the light flickers and dims yet again._

* * *

As the pale light reflects off of blue armor, my optics flicker slightly, before remaining closed. My digits flex, creating a soft scraping noise as they run over the rusted metal below me. There is sharp pain that shoots through my backstrut, and I cannot help but moan, denta gritting together from the sensation. It feels like molten slag had been poured over my back; burning so bad that it feels like that sensation alone would melt my armor.

My optics finally open; slowly brightening until everything becomes clear. Or… Or as clear as it would get… My gaze focuses in on the shadows that reach toward me, beckoning me to come closer. Dancing around the room as close to the dim light as they dared. Some of them hide beneath my frame, trying to coax me to follow them, to abandon the diminutive amount of lighting shining down on me.

My intake feels so dry, my tanks fuel-deprived. When was the last time I'd refueled..?

I attempt to lift an arm; whether to force the shadow beneath it to flee from the light, or to attempt touching it, I am unsure… But… My arm… I-I can't move it! I can feel the panic rising in my spark when I attempt to sit up—I'm trapped! I'm fragging trapped! Where the frag am I?! What is this place?!

…

 _Who am I..?_

My designation… I-I can't think of it…

Wait… How did I even get here? Why am I shackled to a berth?

Why can't I remember..?

* * *

 _The shadows flee; skittering into the deepest corners and crevices of the room as a bright shaft of light shines in. An audio-splitting screeching fills the room as rusted doors that had once been hidden within inky darkness are forced to open. They wait at the edges of this new, brighter light, testing it, seeing how close they could come._

 _But it penetrates through any that are too close; stabbing, slaying, destroying the dark shadows._

 _Save for the one that slowly enters the room; a black silhouette against the white light from outside. The doors close once more behind this new, dangerous shape, giving another grating screech as rust slides over rust. The shape seems to melt into the blackness of the room as it rushes to fill it once more as that blinding light disappears._

 _As the shape approaches the little mech's frame, it seems to come right out of the shadows itself; inky black, large, dangerous, as it looms over him. The shape blocks out that single light, casting the youngling into shadow, forcing the last of that light to leave his frame, and for the shadows to slither over it slowly. They engulf his small form, ravenously devouring it into darkness; licking at his plating, coiling around his limbs and chest, until only his optics can be seen through it. Piercing, fearful, and as red as the plasma to run through an organic's veins._

Thump—thump—thump. _Within the youngling's chest, his spark pounds. The sound seems to echo through the otherwise-silent room; as if, somehow, the sound had been collected, and is now tossed between the shadows. They do not allow for it to stop bouncing off the walls; tossing it back and forth, back and forth, back and forth between each other continuously._

* * *

I look on with only fear in my optics at this shape. I… I can't tell what he—she— _it_ looks like. What happened..? Did… Did my optics have damage to them? Or did this… This… _Thing_ tamper with my memory-banks..?

Fraggit, I don't know!

It's just a shadow—I can't even see their optics… Primus, please help me here!

I tug against my metal bonds, but can only succeed in cutting up my wrists and ankles; for the rusted metal to dig under my dark blue armor and scrape against gray protoform. I grit my denta from that feeling, digits flexing and rounded tips scraping over the rusted metal slab beneath me.

I… I just want out of here!

* * *

 _"Now, now, sweetspark—no need to struggle." The shadow-like shape purrs slowly, softly—but it is filled with so much venom and warning. The voice alone is strange: Polyphonic, and the youngling cannot decipher whether it is mech, or femme. Whoever or whatever this shape is had altered the mech's memory-banks; glitched his audio receptors. There is no better way to remain undetected it the only witness is unable to give a description on voice or appearance. And this Cybertronian is well aware of this fact._

 _The room's dim light glints off of a surprisingly-clean tool; the shafts of light reflecting off of it and piercing into the darkness of the room as the shadowed shape lifts it off of a nearby cart after taking a few steps in its direction. The tool is lifted, carefully inspected by this mech or femme. Once more do they approach the berth, and the nameless young mech can only struggle against his rusted bonds. The tool is cruel; hooked and narrow on one end with a pointed tip. It looks like something that would be used for holding wires out of the way during surgery._

 _The shadows wait in their corners, staring hungrily at the tool as it suddenly descends, locking into the exposed protoform of his upper arm, digging into his arm. A scream immediately follows as the tool rips, tears, shreds at the protoform._

 _Dark shadows slither around the wound, mimicking the shape that the Cybertronian's dactylin makes as it brings that tool deeper, tugging wires forcefully, shredding circuits, and sending hot flashes of pain throughout his arms._

 _ **"St… Sto-oooop! I… I**_ **beg** _ **you!"**_ _He cries out, whilst rounded dactyl dig against the berth relentlessly. The youngling's struggles become fiercer after he speaks, but it only succeeds in pulling the tool through his arm jaggedly, and causing the pain flaring through his limb to become just that much worse. He… He wants his pain receptors disabled! Why are they doing this to him?! What had he done to get this cruel treatment?!_

 _"Hush, now; this isn't even the beginning,_ runt _."_

* * *

What?! N-not even the beginning..?

I can only groan as the cruel tool is forcibly removed from my limb, but I'm not given a chance to sigh with relief as this… This… ,Cybertronian's' digits move to caress the new wound and sending chills up my backstrut; Energon drip—drip—dripping from it. I can't spare the substance as it is, fraggit!

But then, my optics widen. I can feel those sharp digits forcing their way into the gash in my arm—tearing the protoform further as two of them are forced into the wound. I grind my denta together, muffling another cry, feeling as one wire at a time is pulled free, feeling as the jagged wound is shredded from within. I shut my crimson optics tightly, and I can feel coolant running from their corners, down my cheek-plates, to the rusted berth beneath me.

Another groan leaves my vocoder as those digits slowly draw out of the gash on my upper arm, coated in my own blood-Energon. I shut my blood-colored optics tightly as those digits dripping my Energon meet my faceplate, slowly drawing down my cheek-plate, and leaving the lightly-glowing substance on my face. It gives me chills, that simple movement.

What… What had I done to deserve this? I-I honestly can't remember anything!

* * *

 _Those long, sharp digits slowly drawing down the youngling's faceplate, they finally reach his chin, and are ultimately removed. The tool, wires hanging from its cruel hook, Energon dripping from its unforgiving end, is placed right back where it had initially been found._

 _For many long moments, the shape seems to melt back into the shadows. The shadows slither around the young mech as his dactylas ball into tight fists and he finally brings his piercing optics to open. His gaze slowly begins drifting about the room; over tools that litter a multitude of carts and counters that surround him. He looks to the shadows as a soft scraping noise emits from somewhere in the room, echoing into the darkness._

 _Another cart, being pushed by the shadow of a Cybertronian. The youngling's frightened gaze flicks to where their own optics should be located; though with his altered memories, he cannot recall their appearance in the slightest of degrees._

 _A flash of silver, the dim light reflecting off of the tool in a bright white ray, and another tool is chosen from this new cart. A blade—a scalpel to be exact—is this form's newest tool. So simple, yet so effective. That blade is lowered oh so slowly, until finally meeting with the jagged wound in the youngling's arm._

 _He squirms and whimpers as the scalpel is drawn through his protoform—making such clean, yet painful slices into his upper arm._

* * *

The pain gradually begins to worsen; the Energon begins to run faster. My optics slowly brighten as the pain intensifies, and I do my best to hold back my cries. I… I can't give in like that… Wh-whoever this is, they want me to know pain; they want to draw screams of terror and agony from my vocoder.

But then I hear it.

A sickening _crack!_

At first, my optics simply remain wide, mouth agape. The pain doesn't seem to hit me right away, as shock does instead. My arm… M-my arm…

And I can't hold back the scream that finally leaves me; it splits through the dark room, bouncing between the shadows. My voice cracks from the splitting screech that leaves me; my digits begin scraping against the berth with an audio-splitting sound. I arch my back off of the berth as I shut my optics tightly against the tears that begin streaming down my faceplate.

My arm… I-it doesn't follow the movement… It lays limply, still held at the wrist, b-but no longer connected to my frame… I can't bare the pain that now flares through what's left of my arm.

Vents rapid, spark pounding from within its chamber, I begin feeling nauseous. The Energon draining from my faceplate; I _know_ I'd purge if I had anything left in my tanks! And what's left of my arm gushes Energon—I feel myself growing dizzy from both a loss of the much-needed substance, and the pain tearing through my circuits mercilessly.

What have I done to deserve this?!

Primus… Have mercy!


	2. Memory 002

**Warning, This Story May Contain The Following:**

 _Violence\Gore, Physical\Verbal Abuse, Torture, Mental\Emotional Trauma, Angst, Alcohol, Addiction, Psychotic Thoughts or Actions, Schizophrenic Tendencies_

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 **Disclaimer:** I own this history and the messed up fragger tearing Blitzwing apart. I do not own Blitzwing, though he is my chosen victim~

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 _ **Searching Memory-Banks…**_

 _ **…Loading File…**_

 _ **Begin**_

I watch this… Torturer… With my denta grinding together almost audibly; the digits of my right arm flexing before curling tightly into fists. My optics burn from the tears that run from them, causing my vision to be blurry, and this Cybertronian's shape to be distorted.

I can only watch with widening optics as they take my now-severed arm and pull it upward with as much force as physically possible. I hear it, a tank-wrenching _snap_ as the arm breaks away from the dactylin. My tanks feel ready to upturn, and I cannot hold back a gag as Energon spatters in all directions.

I… I can't _feel_ that particular action now that the arm is removed, but Primus… I can see and hear it… If there was any Energon in my tanks, I _know_ , I _fragging know_ I would have purged…

I can only speak a single word, choking it out past sobs and gags that I try and fail to hold them back. **"Why..?"** When I hear my voice, I can't help a grimace; it sounds so weak, so… Terrified…

* * *

 _The Cybertronian tosses the severed limb to the ground, but picks up the dactylin that had been broken off of the arm so forcefully at the wrist. Suddenly, another_ snap _rings throughout the room. And then another—a third—a fourth—a fifth. For the youngling, it does not immediately register as to what that particular sound is._

 _When it does, his bright red optics shut tight, and he bares his denta, withholding yet another bout of gagging. The digits… They had snapped the digits of that severed dactyl one at a time, each in differing ways. One bent backward; another crushed at the knuckles; the third, twisted until the joints gave way; and the forth… The forth pulled right off the dactylin._

 _The sound of metal-on-metal soon follows, accompanied by a pained cry, as the dactylin is striking him upon the helm with enough force that it dents inward and draws a small trickle of Energon. The youngling mech… He cannot spare any more of the vital substance. His optics remain upon the Cybertronian, but they slowly dim down, flickering, as he is on the verge of a forced stasis._

 _They retrieve an Energon-drip after watching the youngling for a few short moments that seem to draw out for centuries. The long, thin needle is pierced into the mech's neck-cabling; it draws a grateful moan from him as Energon begins trickling into his intake, and then down into his tanks. "We can't have you offlining before the procedure, can we_ runt _?" He can hear the voice—a dry, humorless laugh following it thereafter. Soon, complete silence falls over the dimly-lit room; this nameless youngling would be allowed to get badly-needed fuel into his systems before the mech or femme before him would continue with their work._

 _Dark shadows dance throughout the room joyously; whispering to the little mech, asking him to follow them into the blackness that surrounds him. But, he simply closes his bright red optics—why would he obey their wishes? Why would he fall to their level? He does not know who he is; but, he can feel in his spark, that it is not him. But what was?_

 _Thoughts are ultimately cut short when the other begins to move, picking up a long, thin, pointed tool, and then slowly circling the slightly-inclined berth that the youngling lay trapped upon. The strange new tool is being slowly rotated within their digits when the mech opens his optics once more—only to immediately have them widening and coming to bright settings. What would the use of this new tool be..?_

* * *

When that tool is suddenly driven down into my knee, the digits of my remaining servo immediately dig into the rusted metal beneath me. I let out a cry between clenched denta as it is driven into my knee again and again; breaking gears, snapping wires, each time being driven in at a different angle. I can barely hear their voice as I cry out in agony. "Why?" I can faintly hear them asking. "You're gonna be part of something special, dear. Well…" They pause, drawing the tool out of my leg for the umpteenth time, examining the Energon dripping from its end, tormenting me with their silence. "If you can _survive_ at least. But first, you need to know pain, to be torn apart—a circuit at a time—so that you will submit to order and not back down from a fight. If you survive this little… Procedure, you will be built into something amazing, runt. Something never before created— _successfully_ , that is." That purring-growl of a voice is followed by yet another _cracking_ sound, accompanied by so much more pain within my knee.

They… They had driven their fisted servo down over my kneepad… that sound I'd heard… I-it was my kneepad breaking and denting inward, crushing the protoform beneath, damaging the gears even further. Th-the tool had still been in my knee; it drives all the way through. I can hear it scraping against the berth _beneath me_ as it pierces through all the way…

I groan as the tool gets removed from my knee, and tense up as it is pierced into my shin; splitting the armor, and the protoform beneath…

Sure, you want me to tell you that after a while, I just got used to the pain, right? You're so fragging wrong… If anything, it just began to hurt more, and more, the more my armor was broken, my protoform split, wires severed, and gears shattered…

* * *

 _Both legs are given the exact same treatment; each stab drawing screams and groans from the shackled subject. By the time work is ceased, the youngling vents are shaky and ragged; coolant stains his cheek-plates from where it had run from his optics._

Click—scre-eeeech. _The audio-grating sound fills the room as the bonds upon the mech's ankles are both loosened, and then removed completely after a few moments of being toyed with. He gives a shallow groan as the lower halves of his legs are removed, and placed out of his sightline._

 _Each time he attempts to struggle, a powerful shock is sent into his neck-cabling with an Energon-prod; bringing his voice to glitch out for a few moments any time he would speak directly after. Curses and threats eventually become a common thing from the mech as the procedure drags on through the cycles; limbs that had been ripped away so sparklesslessly are replaced as painfully as possible—the movements only careful when the nameless youngling behaves._

 _He can only watch as these limbs—pieced together from multiple mechs and femmes whom had fallen upon the battlefield—are pieced together, and then attached to the youngling's frame. Wires are soldered together, circuits attached, pain receptors repaired. The mech gives growls through clenched denta as, each time a new limb is finished with its attachment, a powerful shock is sent into the limb, causing it to spasm violently in reflex-tests._

 _ **"I'll ri-iiiiiiiip out your sp-sp-spark!"**_ _The mech screams out of anger, struggling against his bonds; tugging at them, attempting futilely to pull free of them. His voice glitches out as he speaks; the shocks that had continuously been sent into his neck since first awakening in this lab had his vocalizer malfunctioning with every scream, every shout, every curse and threat. But, there is so much fear evident within his optic._

* * *

I… I feel so much rage; it just doesn't seem like _me_. Curses spew from my malfunctioning vocoder, and I _refuse_ to give in to the shadows begging for me to join them. They tease from the edges of the light with their freedom; but if I fell to them, would I truly be free?

No, I wouldn't!

* * *

 _Each shout brings the youngling to tug against his bonds and cause tools—from solders, to scalpels, to even talons—to cause more damages to limbs as the Cybertronian attempts the attachments. None of the attachments are done with a great deal of care—only enough to actually get the limbs attached to the youngling's frame successfully. Shocks of electricity are sent into the joints of any newly-places limbs, causing them to spasm violently in these reflex-tests._

 _His pain receptors are all fully active the entire time; each solder brings him to groan as it feels like it burns his protoform, each splice of the artificial limb to his own frame causing agony as soon as the receptors become connected, and the finishing welds and repairs only made_ after _the fact._

 _The youngling whimpers, he groans, he screams, as pain courses through his mangled frame as each attachment is made, each shock tears throughout his circuits. His voice is continuously interrupted by static, skipping, and it even repeats—his nanites are unable to repair it as it fries itself with each electrical shock sent into his neck._

* * *

None of these attachments are painless—not one.

But… It soon comes that I can't even scream as each slice and tear of my protoform, each singing and burning sensation upon it cause me to attempt the sound, but my voice is just strictly static, now…

The… Scientist—that's all I know to call him—her— _them_ —seems to take notice. I can see the glint of a scalpel as it is picked up; the shadows immediately flee from anywhere that the light reflects off of it. I shut my optics tightly—I… I don't want to know what would be happening now…

That gleaming metal feels like it's been put over flames when I feel it meet my neck, cutting through in one direction, and then another to make a wide, jagged ,X' upon it. I cry out, my voice glitching on and off to distort the sound strangely; I can feel their digits meeting my neck. Those long, unforgiving claws, they… They are inserted into the new gash now within my neck. It feels like I'm being choked—I can't get any successful vents into my systems; and oh, how badly I need it within this seemingly-baking room. Maybe it's just hot to me because of the tools used, but I feel the _need_ to vent, or else my systems will heat up far more than they should.

Energon—so bright, a beautiful shade of blue in the darkness of the room—splutters from my mouth as those cruel digits curl around something. I don't know what the frag it is!

At least… Not until they pull that component free, and my cries, coughs, every sound to come from my mouth fall silent. It's then that it instantly hits me as to what that component was, my crimson optics widening as I realize it. My vocoder. My vocoder… I watch, now in complete silence as my vocoder, dripping Energon, wires sparking from where it had been pulled free from my systems, is set upon a nearby table holding so many different medical tools. Some of which I know the damage they can cause, others having yet to be used.

Once more, I close my optics tightly; and I pray. I pray to Primus. I pray to whoever my creators may be. I pray for _anyone_.

Just end it! Stop my spark! Tear it out of my chest! Make a slipup and cut through a major line so that I leak out and offline from Energon-loss! _Anything! Anything, fraggit!_

Release me from this torture, this pain! I don't care if that release is from offlining; I just want out of here!


	3. Memory 003

**Warning, This Story May Contain The Following:**

 _Violence\Gore, Physical\Verbal Abuse, Torture, Mental\Emotional Trauma, Angst, Alcohol, Addiction, Psychotic Thoughts or Actions, Schizophrenic Tendencies_

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 **Disclaimer:** I asked Hasbro\Takara, but apparently, my ideas are ,too violent' for a kid-friendly series. Ahh well.

 **Author's Note:** This one hurt to write...

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 _ **Searching Memory-Banks…**_

 _ **…Loading File…**_

 _ **Begin**_

One servo absentmindedly rubs at the sore spot on my throat-cabling, whilst behind me, my newly-placed wings twitch and jolt as they are set correctly. I give a quick yelp with my new vocoder as the gears are tweaked too much, and I nearly jump away from their grasp—only my processor sending ,warnings' throughout my frame keeps me from darting away as my wings are set.

"Remain still!" They snap, and I quickly snap to attention—although I'll admit I am still having difficulty keeping my newly-attached wings from moving…

I cross my arms over my chest, focusing on the mismatched plating upon them with a hard glare. What… Had they done to me..? My armor that had once been a brilliant dark blue with red and orange accents—from stripes to entire plates—had been ripped away and replaced after my new limbs were fully set. My appearance _disgusts_ me… And what had they said my alternate modes would be? A jet and a… Hover car, was it? Wonderful… Not only would I be a freak using the parts of mechs and femmes who were already offline, but I'd be a rare anomaly upon Cybertron: A Triple-Changer.

~.~.~

" _Good, good; both fine and gross motor skills are working correctly. Optical sensors seem to be functioning at a perfect rate…" The Scientist lists off a number of things into a datapad carrying the youngling's newly-acquired medical information, ignoring the murderous glares cast in their direction from the subject in question. "So far everything seems to be in working order… We just need to test the runt's transformations—_ hopefully _they won't offline you the instant your plating begins shifting over your frame…"_

" _ **O-offline..?"**_ _The youngling repeats with his new, strangely-accented vocalizer, shuffling his pedes anxiously whilst his rather large wings droop from upon his back. He brings one dactylin up to the opposite arm, rubbing at the scarred armor nervously whilst his crimson, hate-filled gaze falls to the ground._

" _Hold out your servo." The order is swiftly obeyed, and they take the youngling's outstretched dactylin within their own, studying the joints, and the flexibility of the sharp, sleek talons. "Good. Clench your digits… Very good." His dactylin is released, and notes jotted down. "Knuckles seem to hold some resistance to movement; that will be corrected at most convenient time." Slowly, they stand from a knelt position in front of the youngling's new, rather large frame, and begin circling him. Sharp, cold talons trace the top edges of the mech's wings; the appendages instinctively twitch away from the touch. He grimaces as a firm dactylin grips the wings in order to test their sensitivity, wanting to pull away, but knowing such an action would simply earn punishment._

" _Reflexes are functioning as they should be. Hmm… Wings seem more sensitive than intended… Likely cause is repaired damages that the original owner picked up before appendages were removed from carcass… Will attempt to correct this if the need arises." A visible shudder travels through the young mech as the word ,carcass' leaves the other's vocalizer—his new frame, every last plate, is constructed from the parts of offline mechs and femmes. It is… Sickening to think about._

 _As he is circled, he keeps his helm and wings lowered submissively to his ,creator' unless otherwise instructed, keeping as still as possible as he is examined like some… Thing. He cannot hide the clenching of his dactylas, though; servos creaking from the strain as he refrains from attempting to claw at this scientist who had constructed his new frame for him. Crimson optics burning brightly with fear and hatred watch the floor between his pedes._

 _And then, the order finally comes: "Everything seems to be in order… Transform,_ runt _."_

 _He does not move, not a single circuit gives even the slightest of a twitch. His lip-plate slowly curls into a snarl that bares his denta and exposes the two lone, top canines, but he does not look up to reveal this expression to the one before him. Suddenly, he is lunging forward with sharp talons outstretched._

~.~.~

I am no slave! I never even wanted to be here!

Rage clouds my processor—I just wanted out of this fragging lab! Everything seems to slow down in my optics, something else seems to take hold of me, to guide me, in this blitz of the fragger who'd ripped me apart, who'd punish me for the stupidest things just so that I'd learn to obey without question. The low, rumbling growl of my engine reverberates from deep within my chest, echoing within my audio receptors. Was this… Was this really me..?

My sleek talons come so, so close to their throat cables—I can almost feel their Energon spilling onto _my_ servos, rather than the other way around!

But then, my momentum comes to a painful stop as I feel something grab hold of my left wing and pierce into it. If not for the servo now holding it firmly, I would have collapsed to the ground right there as white-hot flashes of pain shoot through my wing and send bolts of pain up my spinal-strut. My optics snap wide open, and I tightly clench my denta in order to hold back the scream trying to claw its way from my vocoder.

Those claws slowly begin drawing downward upon my wing, gouging into it, and causing my Energon to begin leaking from the wound. "Now, now, we can't have any disobedience, can we?" I can hear them _purr_ these words! As if they'd done nothing but lightly rap my knuckles for trying to steal an Energon-goody.

My helm snaps back, mouth opening in a silent scream, as I feel the sharp prods of an Energon-prod upon my neck, electricity quickly coursing through systems already becoming so damaged from the tool's overuse with my behavior-correction…

~.~.~

 _Sharp talons are retracted from the deep gashes within the youngling's wings as he collapses to his knees, clawing at his neck even after the prod is removed. This all happens within mere moments, but it seems to draw out for such a long time… The youngling had threatened them before, growled, even snapped at them in an attempt to lock his denta onto the scientist's arm or dactylin—but this… Oh, this was new, and needed to be corrected. But, for the moment, it gives an idea._

 _What a pathetic attempt at a surprise attack—a blitz. His wings certainly seemed sensitive, as well; perhaps it would be a better idea to leave their sensitivity as-is, for it seems a good way to control the ,little' mech now that his new frame is too large to simply hold him by the throat against a wall… Really, they cannot have him disobeying like that any longer…_

" _Can we? Blitz…_ Blitzwing _." What a perfect name for him… It would serve to mock him, and to serve as a constant reminder that he is no free mech, but rather a scientist's property only good for experimental purposes. If he offlined because of the procedure, well… The scientist would simply have to find another ,willing volunteer'…_

" _Get your aft off the ground!" They demand. Before the youngling can even move, cruel talons yet again meet his wing, and he is forcibly jerked to his pedes. Dactylas swiftly move to the mech's shoulders, and he is shaken violently whilst being looked in the optics. "You_ never _defy me in such a way, runt! I took you apart once, I will do it again, understood?!"_

 _Crimson optics blazing with fury simply narrow, and his wings pin back with anger._ _ **"I'll tear out jour fragging spark!"**_ _He screams back in way of answer, once more baring his denta threateningly._ _ **"I'm not jour slave! I don't belong to jou!"**_

" _Oh, but you do belong to me…" Again, their voice lowers to a purr, whilst one dactylin slips under the youngling's chin in order to force him to look up at them. "You are a weapon. Weapons are property. Your spark itself is_ mine _to decide whether it even remains within your chest or not." Slowly, those dactylas slide upward from the mech's shoulders, until they find his neck—long, sharp digits curl around the cables as red optics widen with fear. "Understood?" When no answer comes, digits immediately tighten around the youngling's throat, threatening to pierce what the scientist knows are major Energon lines. "Understood?!"_

 _A mute nod is finally given, whilst wings slowly lower to their fullest degree._ _ **"U-underschtood…"**_

" _Very good. Now, back to the lab; I have a correction upon your frame to make…"_

 _The youngling casts a sidelong glance at his damaged wing, before lowering it out of his view once more, and bowing his helm. He follows the taller Cybertronian without a word, rubbing at his scarred neck cables with one dactylin as he does. Upon reaching the main lab, the mech does not even have to be ordered onto the examination table—he knows the drill all too well by now._

" _You have been disobeying a great deal lately, runt…" The scientist muses, almost to themselves, as they adjust the metal bonds over the prototype's ankles and wrists. "You know I do not accept such insolence…" A silent, shameful nod is given in answer, before they move to the youngling's helm—an alarmed whimper leaves him because of it. "I know, I know—your helm has not been held down since we started, hmm? But it is needed for this particular correction…"_

 _The youngling begins to struggle—what correction is being made that his helm must be held down?! His sleek talons begin clawing at the Energon-stained berth below him, optics growing wide. He listens as his ,master' informs him of his mistake._

 _This… This is not a frame correction—this is a punishment! The youngling begins pleading, begging for forgiveness, promising that from now on, he would listen as he should. He struggles but in vain—before his entire frame freezes instantly._

~.~.~

I… I don't dare move, save for a grimace and widening of my optics, as I feel those sharp talons digging into my faceplate, directly below my left optic. Oh, so, so slowly, those unforgiving, knife-like digits slowly draw through my protoform; coming closer, and closer, and closer to my shock-widened optic. I can feel my panic rising with each painful jerk of their servo; I can feel the Energon already beginning to run down my faceplate, across my scarred armor, and down to the already-stained berth below me. **"N-no… No, no! Please!"** The words leave me before I can even register that they'd formed on my glossia, and, through the pounding of my spark in my audios, I can hear a tsk from the scientist. I didn't have permission to speak, yet did so anyway…

My helm tilts back as far as possible against the bond holding it relatively stationary, my denta bared as I struggle to get free.

But then, they pull back, right as I feel them splitting through the shutters of my left optic; so, so close to piercing it… **"I-I'm sorry…"** I croak, as relief washes over me. That was so close… So, so close… My gaze follows their digits as they raise over my helm, Energon dripping down and the lightly-glowing little droplets spattering over my faceplate.

"Oh, I know you are, dear." The words are purred, as they lean down toward my audio—and all I can do in answer is scream. "But you need to remember to obey my commands…" Their sharp digits gouge deeper and deeper into my left optic, twitching and jerking within it painfully as they dig into it. The Energon begins to run down my faceplate one more, while sobbing screams leave me. They are so slow… So deliberately slow…

One wire, one circuit, at a time, is plucked free from my optic—I can feel it spark as it blows out. My denta bite together so tightly that I'm almost certain I would crack the canines that my creator had put in my mouth.

And, in one fluid movement, my optic is yanked from my head; my tanks feel like they're about to upturn as the orb is held in front of my gaze. I am forced to watch as Energon leaks from it, wires spark, and the crimson light begins to fade. I don't make a sound, I don't move a circuit; shock seems to be the only thing I know as I look to that optic— _my_ optic—with slightly-parted lip-plates.

Those cruel digits curl around my optic, slowly tightening into a fist around it. I hear the _crack_ as it is crushed almost instantly, I can see Energon spurt from between their digits, and rain down upon me in glittering droplets. The mess of crushed metal and wire that had been my optic only moments ago is tossed to the floor.

I shut my… Optic… Tightly as a single coolant tear threatens to slip from its corner—I… I can't let it fall… **"I'm sorry…"**


	4. Memory 004

**Warning, This Story May Contain The Following:**

 _Violence\Gore, Physical\Verbal Abuse, Torture, Mental\Emotional Trauma, Angst, Alcohol, Addiction, Psychotic Thoughts or Actions, Schizophrenic Tendencies_

 _ **~.~.~**_

* * *

 _ **~.~.~**_

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers in any way; if I did, children would not be watching it-

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 _ **~.~.~**_

 _ **Searching Memory-Banks…**_

… _ **Loading File…**_

 _ **Begin**_

Drip—drip—drip. _Lightly-illuminating Energon falls from the youngling's helm, creating a small puddle on the berth below him, and he remains still as his bonds are undone to allow him movement once again. When finally he does decide to move, one shaky left arm lifts, and his digits gingerly run through the gashes in his faceplate, before meeting the empty socket that had housed an optic only minutes ago._

" _All right, up; on your pedes!" The slightest nod answers, and slowly, he moves off the slightly-slanted metal slab, and looks to his frame closely for really the first time. His lower legs look… Peculiar, to say the least. "Now,_ Blitzwing _, may we attempt your transformation again; or do you wish to lose your_ other _?"_

" _ **I-I'll do as jou co-ommand… Sir."**_

" _Very good. Then we may return to *The Hall…" The Scientist walks ahead of their… Creation; dactylas clasped behind their back. Their strides are long, calm, calculated, certain with their placement upon the cold metal floor stained blue from countless failures upon the operating table. The young Cybertronian had grown so used to these stains by now—he thought nothing else of them, other than keeping them as a reminder that he had survived where others had not. So far…_

 _He is led back through the dilapidated building that had been chosen to house this hidden lab for experimentation. The mech does not even know what city he is in, let alone if he would ever make it out of this place with his spark intact. ,Blitzwing' is Series Eleven—this scientist's eleventh attempt at creating an artificial Triple-Changer frame; Project: Tri-State, as the youngling had heard them say whilst jotting down notes. There were ten others before him, and only one other still online aside from himself: Series Six. Those… Those are not the best of odds…_

 _He had overheard heard that Series One—Slate—had the most gruesome offlining of any of them; that he had torn himself apart attempting to transform. From what the youngling had heard, Series One's screams as he was ripped apart were circuit-chilling, and had even the Scientist having nightmares the following cycles. Each prototype became more successful than the last—and, though Series Six—Killjoy—had survived, it did not mean he was successful. His processor had been so fragged up that he was kept in chains within a cage in the furthermost room of the building from the lab and Hall._

 _It certainly kept the youngling worried—every cycle, fearing that his spark would finally extinguish._

~.~.~

" _Very good," the Scientist praises, whilst Blitzwing takes to one knee before them as his long, dangerous turrets mounted upon his back slowly rotate back into their skyward positions. "Now, transform."_

 _A simple nod is given, and the prototype stiffly moves back to his pedes and paces backward by a few large steps. His arms are held at his sides, and he stands tall; although, his gaze remains upon the floor, and wings lowered in submission to his frame-builder. Shadows dance about as he readies himself for his first transformation. Both pairs of shutters close, even though he now only possesses a single optic; he takes in a vent, and then slowly lets it back out, before willing his cumbersome plates to begin shifting over his frame._

 _The shift is slow and uncomfortable; one plate at a time sliding into place as he aims to first take on his flight-capable form due to its slight familiarity with his systems. But, it does not take long before his single optic flashes wide open, and he cried out whilst Energon begins to drip from between his plates. Armor creaks and snaps as it is crushed beneath other plates; his back groans as the gears holding his wings are put under extreme pressure, and his left finally snaps, clattering to the floor. A struggle ensues from his frame as he forces those plates to slide back into their correct positions as he tries to remain on his pedes. One large dactylin grips at his chest, optics flickering, whilst his gaze drifts back toward the Scientist, gaze filled with shame; he had failed…_

 _One unsteady step forward is taken, followed by a far slower second, and then a thunderous crash as he collapses to the floor._

" _No! Fraggit!" The youngling's frame-builder is quickly kneeling at his side, struggling a bit to roll him on his back due to his weight, before working quickly to remove Blitzwing's chest-plating. His vents are there, but had grown shallow and forced, and his optic is so dull that it is nearly to the point it is offline._

 _A plate that had snapped is embed within the youngling's spark-chamber; the glass cracked, Energon leaking from it profusely, and weak tendrils of energy reaching forward beggingly from his spark as it silently pleas to be saved. Sharp digits screech as they are dragged over the metal floor, and a dimly-radiating gaze follows the Scientist as they move quickly to retrieve tools along the far wall of The Hall._

 _A shallow groan leaves the prototype as rushed repairs are made to remove the plate from his chamber, and then to seal the leakage. "Come on, come on! I have worked too hard on this Project to lose another!"_

 _Muttered curses, angered shouts, before those sounds slowly begin to fade into background noise for Series Eleven as he loses consciousness, and his vision succumbs to the welcoming darkness of the shadows._

~.~.~

Tick. Tick. Tick. _Long, sharp digits tap at the keys to a monitor that the unconscious prototype is hooked up to; once more strapped down to the rusted berth within the lab. Moving him had been difficult, but doable with the aid of a rolling cart converted into a medical berth rather quickly to allow swift movement through the building. His spark beats weakly; and to say that is not worrisome would be a lie. The damages may now be repaired, but it is now up to his spark and frame to decide whether or not to pull through._

 _So much time, work, and reourses put into him; such a waste if he was to fall offline—albeit, his parts would be used on whomever became Series Twelve, and any to follow, of course._

 _The Scientist remains patient with the healing-process of the youngling's systems—best to allow him to be fully healed and begin work once more, than to overwork him beforehand and end up with his spark giving out from the strain. Cycles slowly drag on before Blitzwing emerges from his system-forced stasis. The cycles to follow are easygoing on his frame; final repairs, tests to make sure his limbs still worked correctly after his failed transformation—and, though painful as always, this was the first time he could relax in even the slightest; that pain so dull compared to everything else that had been done that he barely gives so much as a groan or whimper._

 _Though despite how long the reparation procedure had taken, when it comes time for him to begin ,work' once more, it comes too soon. His behavior had dropped in this time once again; so when training was once more initiated, corrections were again required…_

~.~.~

" _Back down, Blitzwing! That is an order!"_

 _Energon trickles from the Scientist's faceplate, as well as the prototype's neck-cabling, dactylas, and the side of his helm._ _ **"I… I can't take zis anymore! Let… L-let me out uff here!"**_ _A crack of metal-on-metal rings through The Hall, immediately followed by a stinging sensation in the young mech's cheek-plate as a cruel palm strikes it sharply. He takes a small step backward, but does not fully stand down._ _ **"Please…"**_ _He raises his crimson optic to meet his builder's, the red orb dull, and his oversized wings pinned back slightly and twitching with anxiety._

" _And why would I do that,_ runt _?" Slowly, they begin to circle their creation, whilst Blitzwing lowers his helm and wings submissively, slowly drawing his arms around himself and hugging them tightly against his chest. The youngling feels the Scientist's dactylas upon his shoulder-mounts from behind, feels their vents from the back of his helm as they hiss into his audios. "You are_ my _property, Eleven._ Every single plate _upon your frame_ belongs to me _. I may do with you what I wish; keep you here as long as I say, or until your spark_ gives out _. Disobedience will not be tolerated! And the only escape from here that you will have will be through_ offlining _!" That final word is emphasized as the Scientist drives their knife-like digits into the gears that connect Blitzwing's wings to his backstrut._

 _The prototype screams into his palm as he attempts to silence himself. His scarlet optic is open wide, massive silver wings flaring out to the sides as the pain tears through both them, and his spinal strut._ _ **"I just…**_ **Please!…** _ **V-vant… S-schto-oooop!"**_ _The young mech may not know exactly what sensitivity wings were usually at, but he knows that his own are more so than they should be; the damages they were currently receiving of far worse pain than nearly anything else that he had been through._

 _A crash can be heard as Blitzwing goes to his knees, trying to move into the correct position of submission; yet, he cannot get his footing with sharp dactyl tearing away at the bases of his wings. No, this was no longer torture; this was punishment for a poorly-behaved child._

~.~.~

 _Not only had the youngling been torn apart upon the operation table more than once, as, multiple times, limbs had to be removed and corrected, as did plates; but abused, as well. A youngling who silently begged for loving affection from someone—anyone—yet now only ever received beatings, and perhaps the occasional praise if he performed his tasks exceedingly well. He tried desperately to please his creator, to do well; felt shame whenever he failed, and proud of himself when he succeeded. He was torn between hating this Scientist, and loving them; they had kept him online, and was the only one there for him when he was hurt—even though many of these injuries were sustained from the frame-builder themself…_

 _Blitzwing knew what it was like to offline because of them; three separate times, his spark had stopped because of the punishment dealt to his frame from powerful shocks angled at his chest. His sleek, black digits were scarred from hard or sharp objects wrapping overtop of them if he attempted to reach for something—Energon, usually. His wings were commonly used to keep him in check; be it through cold digits running atop of their edges, to a needle-like tool being used to stab all the way through them. constantly, his remaining optic was used as a threat if he misbehaved._

 _But he was also given a careful caress upon the helm when he was nearly in recharge; the feeling like that of a paternal or maternal Cybertronian—a parent, creator. When he performed beyond expectation for a few cycles in a row, he was rewarded; be it with a full refueling, an entire cycle of rest, or sedation for a procedure rather than forced to remain wakeful. Things so many others outside of the lab took advantage of…_

… _Yet things that Blitzwing rarely received._

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 _.~.~._

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 ***The Hall:** _A vast room within the lab building used for training and transformation-attempts_


	5. Memory 005

_**Searching Memory-Banks…**_

 _ **…Loading File…**_

 _ **Begin**_

'V _y ze frag did et haff to be me?!_ Vy vas I ze vone chosen for zis…procedure..? Out of millions, I…I vas ze vone found… Et could haff been anyvone; an-anyvone, fragget! Yet I'm ze vone being slagging ripped apart; I'm ze vone being tortured, abused! Et could haff been anyvone, yet I'm ze one trapped in here!'

 _The youngling sits with his back to the rest of the lab from upon the floor. Lightweight chains bind his wrists; so easy to break, but only there so that he knew his ,area' of the room. He could break them if he wished, he had multiple times before—but, if he bypassed their area of reach, punishment was to be received. An Energon-streaked faceplate is buried between his knees, whilst oversized dactylas grip the back of his helm. He feels weak, tired, ill, even; did he perhaps have a virus? The last procedure upon his frame had him groggy and unable to walk straight—likely drugged beforehand, as he cannot recall what was done, unlike usual. His helm ached, his digits were numb, he could barely move his wings._

 _What…what had been done..?_

 _Blitzwing begins humming softly, rocking slowly forward and back, forward and back, whilst his crimson optic eyes the shadows that dance around him cheerfully. They beckon him with silent invitations to follow, gently caress his frame like the touch of a loved one. The youngling giggles softly as if he had been told a joke, yet there was no sound to precede the laugh. The giggles soon drop into quiet sobs as he curls up against himself tighter._

'I'm not falling to jour level…' _he thinks to himself as his optic closes, ignoring the darkness around him,_ 'jou can't make me fall…I von't…jou can't make me…'

~.~.~

 _"Hmm…most peculiar…" The Scientist looms over a monitor at the corner of the youngling's vision, though he dare not move at that moment. His arms and chest still ache after cables were disconnected from his frame; yet another failed transformation had occurred the cycle prior. Blitzwing groans as his frame-builder ,aids' him back to his pedes, and slowly leads him toward the monitor. The Scientist traces different lines and marks with one digit whilst with their free dactylin, helps the mech remain on his pedes. "Your brainwave activity has been picking up—it now rests at a higher rate than Series Six even when you are within a recharge-state." They pause for a moment, rubbing their chin thoughtfully, before gesturing toward information upon another monitor to the left of the previous one. "Yet your processor seems damaged… How peculiar…"_

 _ **"D-damaged, Sir?"**_

 _"You were not given permission to speak, were you?" Sharp talons find the mech's right wing and dig into its edge as he yelps, before pressing his lip-plates together and bowing his helm. "…But yes, damaged… Hmm…emotional core seems to have the most damage…" The Cybertronian begins muttering calculations and hypotheses to themself—leaving the youngling to grasp the edge of the medical berth as they begin pacing and no longer aid him in standing._

 _Blitzwing watches without so much as a word, his massive wings hanging limply from upon his back, before pricking as his ,creator' rapidly turns to face him. "You still portray your emotions—but!—there are times only certain emotions show! You seem to have developed an emotional disorder; but the cause… Hmm…there are many causes for it to have occurred…"_

 _The mechling raises a dactylin, and presses two digits to his lip-plates whilst tapping the floor a bit with one ped. The Scientist takes notice, and makes a quick and impatient gesture. "Speak, speak; what is it?"_

 _ **"Ze sho-ocks, Sire…**_ **Sir** _ **? Could…could zey d-damage my-y processor? O-or somesing za-at jou've injected i-into my syschtems?"**_

 _"The shocks… They lead to damage of your systems themselves…your spinal strut has already been replaced because of damage caused by electrocution…spinal strut is connected with core processor…emotional core is part of core processor… Damaged emotional core leads to emotional disorders and lack in emotion or your case, ones that only show at certain times… Shocks lead to damage… Damage leads to behavioral issues… Behavioral issues lead to punishment… Punishment leads to electrocution…" They pause, digits tapping slightly. "What a cruel cycle… You best be working on your behavior, runt."_

 _ **"Ja, Sir."**_

 _~.~.~_

 _One step forward, an upward thrust of a clenched fist, wings rattling. Heavy vents can be heard between grinding denta, and a single optic radiates brightly. Another step is taken, accompanied by a rough uppercut and sudden flaring of massive silver wings riddled with scars, scrapes, and cuts._

 _"Very good, Blitzwing. Now, drive him back into his cell, bring him down, or offline him, and you will be finished for the remainder of the cycle."_

 _An optic widens slightly at that order; a break? He would get a break? His performances must have been acceptable the last few cycles._ _ **"Ja, Sir."**_

 _Crashing pedes, cracking metal, flying droplets of Energon; that is all the room becomes as the massive mechs—both baring the marks of abuse and experimentation—collide again and again. Blitzwing's fisted dactylin meets the others jaw in a fierce blow, only for his opponent to retaliate and bring sharp claws across the youngling's right wing. They use talons, heavy pedes—even denta if one mech's arm comes close enough to do so. Neither fights fairly—not that they had ever been taught how to. They were both to be used as weapons of war once tests and procedures were brought to an end; but, until then, this is how they would live. Training. Tearing each other apart to see who was stronger. To see who would gain his freedom…_

 _A sickening_ crack! _rings through the room, and Blitzwing's opponent collapses with a loud cry, gripping his right knee as the youngling steps back and then kneels with his helm bowed._

 _"Very good, Blitzwing; you are advancing quickly." The Scientist moves to stand in front of the mech, long digits curling under his chin in order to lift his helm upward. He remains still as his frame-builder simply holds him there. "Hmm…nearly took out your other optic… Return to the lab so that repairs can be made, then you may rest." A simple nod answers the older Cybertronian, and the youngling stands in order to take his leave._

 _He flinches, a shudder travelling through his spinal strut, as he can hear his opponent—Series Six; Killjoy—receiving his punishment for such a loss as Blitzwing reaches the doorway. He had been here far longer than Series Eleven, and should not have gone down so quickly._

 _So…did it seem_ too _easy;_ too _quick..?_

 _~.~.~_

 _His processor ached… But…why? What…what had occurred the previous cycle..? He cannot recall the procedure… So what had been done?_

 _Slowly, Blitzwing sits up, rubbing his faceplate with palms stained with Energon that had been there since the beginning. His heavy pedes swing off the edge of the berth, and he leans forward with palms upon his knees, moaning as he closes his optic and shakes his helm. His audios ring and he grinds his denta together, before shakily moving to his pedes whilst using the edge of the berth to keep his balance._

 _His gaze fritzes, and arms give out from where they hold him up against the berth, forcing his heavy frame to the ground. For a few moments, he sits with his back against the berth's base in a daze, before a massive dactylin reaches up to rub at the side of his helm, but…something stops him. Something, some sort of metal plating, keeps him from touching the side of his helm. What type of addition had he been given..?_

 _Weak digits slowly trace the new plate; it seems to surround nearly his entire helm, save for his face… Gradually, those long digits come to the left edge of the plate and curl around it, before slipping behind. What was it hiding..? What procedure had gone so bad that something had to hide his helm..? Past his jaw, before his dactyl's movements pause—did he want to know?_

 _Narrowing that single optic, Blitzwing forces his digits to move further—and their tips meet something he was not expecting to find. Another jaw..? They slide upward, tentatively, moving over a mouth and optics that are closed as if in recharge. It feels like it is nearly identical to his own, save for slightly larger optics, thicker brows, and wider facial seams._

 _His processor starts racing—h-how..? Why? What_ the frag _did he have another_ slagging _face for?! How in the fragging_ Pit _could a procedure go wrong enough to give him a second face?!_

 _Approaching pedesteps alert the prototype to his creator's arrival, so he slowly moves into a kneeling position. He keeps his gaze situated upon the floor in front of him, waiting to receive a blow to the helm or something sharp to drag down his wings or to have an Energon-prod jabbed at his scarred neck. He flinches at he feels a dactylin on his back, expecting knife-like digits to claw into the gears of his wings, or grab him from the back of the neck and yank him up to his pedes. It had all been done too many times for him to even keep track anymore—so, why would they not do one of them now?_

 _Yet…the Scientist does not do such things… Instead, they kneel and run gentle digits past a stained faceplate. His creator looks frail, looks…defeated…_

 _"Come." That is all they say, guiding their creation to his pedes. Blitzwing is led out of the main lab, through partially collapsed corridors—even allowed to pause when they pass a broken wall that allows light to filter through from outside. The youngling reaches for that light, twitching his digits, turning his dactylas over—simply transfixed on it. He had never been outside, but the sunlight was beautiful…_

 _With reluctance, he continues on after the Scientist, wings drooping a bit as they leave the lighted corridor for another darkened room. The silence within is eerie and unsettling—not just the quiet that the lab was often in. There was no beeping of monitors, no scraping of chains; just…complete silence. Eerie, as if the room itself is holding its breath; as if the room knows that something is about to happen, and holds anxiety for whatever was to come._

 _A shrill scream that sends the youngling's plating to begin rattling echoes through the room, before falling quiet once more, before laughter fills the dark space, only for that, too, to go silent._

 _ **"S-Sir…v-v-vhat's wro-ong vis S-Six..?"**_

 _"Killjoy is experiencing a…malfunction. Blitzwing…" They pause, a deep sigh leaving their systems, "I need you to use your turrets, understood? End him, before he may cause any more damage than he already has."_

 _ **"O-offline him..? But Sir…h-he's jour mo-most succ-ccessful…"**_

 _"That is an order, Eleven!"_

 _Blitzwing bows his helm and wings in submission, before angling his weapons downward._ _ **"As jou c-comm-mand, Sir."**_ _He begins moving slowly through the darkness, optic narrowed as he looks for the familiar shape of the older mech._

 _Series Six was dangerous, unstable, but he obeyed their creator without question. So…what was wrong with him now that he needed ending..?_

 _The youngling yelps as something strikes his wings—he turns to meet the glowering carmine gaze of Series Six. The older Cybertronian stares him down, helm tilted ever slightly. When he speaks, it sends chills down Blitzwing's spinal strut, "What are you—what are you—what are you doing he-eeeeeeere, little mech?" The voice is glitched, as if it is a poor recording. A heavy dactylin meets the side of the youngling's faceplate with a_ crack _echoing through the room, sending Series Eleven sprawling on the floor in a short daze._

 _What was wrong with him? Yes, Killjoy's processor was fragged up after so much time here, but he was not crazy! At least not at the level that he shows right now…_

 _A cruel ped meets the youngling in the side, forcing him to vent outward roughly. "Sta-aaaaay out of this—this—this Eleven!" Killjoy's gruff, war-torn voice is booming in the youngling's audios, followed by a final kick at the unprotected protoform at his side, before turning away and approaching the one who had them both trapped within that lab. The cannon mounted upon the elder mech's right shoulder whirrs in preparation to fire, whilst the Scientist brandishes their Energon prod, holding it defensively. When the other prototype moves, his steps are uneven and shaky; his optics glow at different radiances; his digits and left optic twitch. Something was definitely not right…_

 _The way he moved, the way he spoke—they did not add up. Killjoy had always been the best-behaved of the prototypes. So why now? Why, after so long, would he think of ending their frame-builder? Had he seen too many come and go? Was he remembering what his life was before? Did his processor possess a malfunction or incorrect program? Whatever it was, this was not Series Six, the submissive; Series Six, the successful. This was Killjoy, no longer living up to his name…_

 _Blitzwing pushes himself to his pedes, grimacing as dented plates scrape against his abdomen, but otherwise holding no severe damages. He looks to his creator, and to his ,brother' of sorts. Killjoy had the right idea—they needed out of here!_

 _But…no! They…he…what else would there be for them? Where could either of them even go?_

 _This was no place for them!_

 _There_ was no place _for them!_

 _They could at least be free!_

 _But would they truly be free?_

 _… Would they_ ever _truly be free..?_

 _The youngling grunts, his dactylas pressing against the top of his helm as an unexplainable pain shoots through it and slowly works its way down his backstrut. He goes unnoticed as the older Cybertronians duel, the Scientist showing more knowledge in battle than they let on._

 _Blitzwing stumbles slightly, shaking his helm violently as if to shake something loose from it—before all of his movements cease altogether._

 _He feels as if a dark chasm had opened beneath his pedes; a hungry mouth waiting to devour him whole. It feels as if an invisible presence shoves him down—down—down in the darkness. There is nothing for him to take hold of, to prevent himself from continuing to fall; he can no longer hear or see the other two—only inky blackness. He tries desperately to catch a handhold, tries to find something that would allow him to claw his way back up. Suddenly, it feels as though someone wraps their dactylas around his neck, slowly tightening their grip as that feeling of falling abruptly stops._

 _It is as if his processor is being split into two, and that one of those halves is rising to power in order to take control. The hands around his neck force him against an invisible wall, and then letting go. He tries to run, but something surrounds him from all sides that he cannot see; he feels terror rising in his spark._

 _And then he feels fear slowly being overtaken by rage and hears a voice from in his head._

~Schtand down!~

 _Was that…_ his _voice..? No, no…far too vicious and enraged to be his own…_

~I'm taking ofer!~

 _When he comes to, the pain in his helm ebbs away, and he looks on with narrowed optics. Optics..? He had a second once more…_

 _In that moment, he holds no fear; only a burning desire to destroy the obstacle that lay in his path. He feels as though he can take on anything that be in his way—and he begins his approach with turrets angled down upon his shoulders._ _ **"Schtand down! Jou're srough!"**_ _He does not stammer, does not move with a bowed helm—rather, he stands tall with wings flared aggressively._

 _Aside from brightly illuminating optics and gold biolights at his abdomen, Blitzwing remains in shadow. Killjoy simply glances over one shoulder and gives a smug smirk that is barely visible in the darkness, before he turns once more to the Scientist. The youngling's digits creak with tension as he curls them into tight fists; a growl begins rumbling from deep within his chest._

 _Another glance over his shoulder, and Killjoy steps away from their bloodied creator struggling to remain on their pedes. Defeated… "Do—do it." The other mech's glitched voice draws Eleven's attention in his direction, whilst his helm tilts slightly._

 _Lip-plate curling, his crimson gaze shifts between Scientist and creation._

 _He fires that shot before any of them can so much as blink…_

 _~.~.~_

 _~.~.~_

 **AN:** What ,procedure' has been done? And just which one of the two did Blitzwing fire upon; the Scientist, or Killjoy?

*Remember! Time-skips are usually quite long in these chapters; so between Blitzwing and Killjoy's spar, and the occurrences of the last part, there is a large amount of time that has passed


	6. Memory 006

_**Searching Memory-Banks…**_

 _ **…Loading File…**_

 _ **Begin**_

 **Previously, in FR3AK:**

"Your brainwave activity has been picking up—it now rests at a higher rate than Series Six even when you are within a recharge-state. …Yet your processor seems damaged… How peculiar… Emotional core seems to have the most damage… You still portray your emotions—but!—there are times only certain emotions show! You seem to have developed an emotional disorder…"

.~.

Something, some sort of metal plating, keeps him from touching the side of his helm. What type of addition had he been given..?

Weak digits slowly trace the new plate; it seems to surround nearly his entire helm, save for his face… Gradually, those long digits come to the left edge of the plate and curl around it, before slipping behind. What was it hiding..? What procedure had gone so bad that something had to hide his helm..? Past his jaw, before his dactyl's movements pause—did he want to know?

Narrowing that single optic, Blitzwing forces his digits to move further—and their tips meet something he was not expecting to find. Another jaw..? They slide upward, tentatively, moving over a mouth and optics that are closed as if in recharge.

.~.

"Killjoy is experiencing a…malfunction, Blitzwing… I need you to use your turrets, understood? End him, before he may cause any more damage than he already has."

.~.

 _~Schtand down! I'm taking ofer!~_

In that moment, he holds no fear; only a burning desire to destroy the obstacle that lay in his path. **"Schtand down! Jou're srough!"**

Lip-plate curling, his crimson gaze shifts between Scientist and creation.

He fires that shot before any of them can so much as blink…

 **Now:**

 _The youngling's shoulders heave as he vents deeply, his blood-colored optics radiating at an eerily unnerving setting within the darkness of the room. Faintly glowing Energon begins to pool around his pedes and the frame upon the ground. Blitzwing bares his denta in a threatening manner whilst large, scarred dactylas curl into tight fists, and oversized wings flare out to the sides in aggression. He looks down upon the frame on the floor, his lip-plates pulled into a snarl. He had made his decision—whether it was the right one to make or not; there was no taking it back now._

 _If he had shot his creator, what would have happened if they did not offline? What is to say that Killjoy himself would not just end Eleven where he stood once the dirty work was over with? Where could he go? He had no home. He had no life. He was a weapon, and that is all he knows he could ever amount to. But…he could at least be out of this lab…_

 _The choice, difficult, had to be made within moments, before one offlined the other and left the youngling with no chance. He had to carefully weigh his options; look over what he would gain and lose within nanoclicks. When that shot fired, he realized too late he had made the wrong choice…_

 _At his pedes lay the other experiment, his offline frame bleeding out, whilst his creator looks on as if in shock. Not at the sight before them, but…into Blitzwing's faceplate._

 _The youngling cries out once more, dactylas pressing against his forehelm and wings snapping into pinned positions. A grating, almost nauseating_ clicking _sounds from_ within _the youngling's helm. He loses his senses for what once more seem like centuries, that wall he feels that he is trapped behind crumbling, before he is yanked back to his own frame, able to control himself once more. He shakes his helm, waiting for his vision to refocus—only one optic yet again?_

 _He then freezes, casting a fearful gaze to the Scientist._ _ **"S-sir, I—"**_

 _The youngling yelps as his frame-builder approaches him, unable to finish his apology, expecting a beating when their arms reach forward. He closes his optic, turning his face away from the other Cybertronian—only to give a surprised outward vent when those dactylas find his shoulder-mounts and rest there. His creator says nothing, simply staring at his faceplate as if it is no longer the same they saw on a cycle basis. "Blitzwing. What was that?"_

 _ **"V-vhat, Sire—**_ **Sir** _ **?"**_

 _"Do not play stupid,_ runt _! The faces! How in Pit did you change between faces?!"_

 _ **"My..?"**_ _One dactylin slips behind the ,cone' around his neck, and he runs his digits over the corner of the second face's jaw before withdrawing it._ _ **"But I didn't—!"**_

 _"This is not what I was hoping for…" they simply murmur, before removing a datapad from subspace. Blitzwing lowers his wings and helm in submission as the elder begins speaking so that the datapad may record their information. "Test Subject: P.T.S. Ex.A.N 11.0. Log One-Eighty-Four. Subject seems to have developed ability to utilize second faceplate—it is uncertain whether or not this can be removed now that his frame has shifted itself to allow this utilization. Can no longer be exploited for intended use—but…" they pause for many long moments, before, "when using second face, temperament became hostile. Possible link between damaged emotional core and multiple faceplates… End Log."_

 _A possible link..? What could that mean?_

~.~.~

Crash!

 _"No! Stand down, Blitzwing! What are you doing?!"_

Thump!

 _The youngling clutches his helm and cries out. The transitions between his faceplates caused agony to tear through his circuits; he felt as though he had no control of himself on whether or not he did change between then. He stumbles each time he changes between them—crashing into monitors, tables, and counters, knocking beakers and tools to the floor each time._

 _He can hear the Scientist in the back of his processor, so distant that it is almost as if his helm had been dunked under water. They shout for him to stop before he backed into something, before he harmed himself with whatever was on that table as it fell._

 _The order is noticed too late. He trips with a grunt, narrowly missing one of the mobile tables as he hits the ground. His faceplate is once more the angry red one, and he growls whilst pounding one fist upon the ground._ _ **"Don't tell me vhat ze frag to do!"**_ _he shouts, casting a fiery glare in his creator's direction._ They _had done this to him! Why in Pit should he listen to their orders?!_

 _Oh, but he would receive punishment if he did not…_

 _Who cared?! Not like he wasn't used to it!_

 _He had been given this frame to obey orders and act as a weapon, though._

 _A weapon?! He would show them what type of weapon he was!_

 _He had made his choice when he shot Killjoy._

 _He could just as easily take a shot at his creator and end this!_

 _Blitzwing grabs the edge of the table so that he may pull himself back to his pedes. It is, within that moment, that so many things begin happening at once, and all within short moments. The Scientist throws their Energon-prod to the side and rushes forward. The table tips over as the youngling's weight comes onto its edge. He falls onto his back once more while beakers tumble off the table. Different concoctions meant for weaponry, rather than punishment falling. Blitzwing screams as the chemicals spill from their containers—the Scientist shouts and tries their best to catch more before they may fall. The youngling's dactylas cover his optics as he squirms, arches his back, and screams._

 _It is a circuit-chilling sound of agony. He grinds his denta tightly together, coolant tears mixed with Energon running from his optics._

 _"Shh… Shh…" They murmur, pulling a rag from subspace and slipping it under their creation's dactylas. Blitzwing's digits tighten around the rag and he holds it there, venting deeply and whimpering softly._

~A-apologize!~

~Vhy ze frag vould I do zat?!~

~Et v-vill giff a lesser punei-ishment zan if jou don't! P-please!~

 _ **"Sir, I—"**_

 _"Hush, Blitzwing."_

 _ **"But I—"**_

 _"Eleven!"_

 _He silences himself, struggling into a sitting position without moving the rag from his optics. They hurt like slag… Were optics even supposed to leak unless badly damaged? If so then…_

 _"Let me see. …_ Now _Eleven."_

 _With his dactylas shaking a bit, he lowers the rag and forces his optics to remain open. He tries not to flinch away when the Scientist slips two digits under his chin in order to make him look up. Using their free dactylin, they wave it in front of the youngling's faceplate. He shakes his helm as much as he is able with their digits still holding him, trying to focus on the shape._

 _"How many digits am I holding up?"_

 _ **"I don't… I can't see…"**_

 _"Then what do you see? You vaguely follow the moments…"_

 _ **"Et's blurry. Very blurry. I can barely fragging make et out! Et's like a messy blob!"**_

 _"…Blob..?" They clear their intake, "Digits, Blitzwing?"_

 _ **"Z-zey…"**_ _He blinks, shaking his helm again as tears and a bit of Energon continue to run down his reddish cheek-plates._ _ **"Vone?"**_

 _"It's three, actually…" The Cybertronian presses the rag to his damaged orbs once more and orders for the youngling to hold it in place. "Unless your optics and their circuits themselves are replaced completely, the damage appears permanent."_

 _~.~.~_

 _"No! No, no!" The Scientist mutters to themself constantly as they pace back and forth within the lab. Blitzwing remains within his designated area; a fresh split in his frosty-blue lip-plate leaking slowly. Ever since he had been able to utilize his second faceplate, and the fact it seemed to possess a completely new personality, it had been nonstop testing. The youngling's optics are dark with exhaustion, and at that moment he slumps back against the wall with wings limp upon his back. The massive appendages' edges rest upon the ground, as still as death itself, much like the rest of the youngling's overworked frame._

 _"—leven!" Blitzwing only then realizes that his creator had been speaking to him, as he had slowly been nodding off into a much-needed recharge._

 _He sits up, slowly, blinking his single optic drowsily before bringing it to rest upon the Scientist._ _ **"J-ja, Sir?"**_ _he questions as he slowly gets to his pedes with aid from the wall behind him. He stumbles a bit as his knees buckle beneath him, but he is able to keep his balance—barely._ _ **"V-vhat do jou need?"**_

 _"Come here."_

 _The prototype nods his helm and obeys the order—albeit, at a rather leisure pace so that he would not collapse on his weakened legs. He keeps his helm bowed when he comes to stand before his frame-builder, and he follows them into a room adjacent with the lab upon being motioned to do so._

 _When he enters shortly after his creator, he stops dead in his tracks—where are they? He moves farther in, whirling around to the sound of dragging chains. He yelps as shackles clamp over his wrists from behind—but…the chains connected are no longer the light ones always used on him… These are heavy, cumbersome, forcing the youngling to kneel with the weight of them pulling him down._ _ **"Vhat…vhat are j-jou doing..?"**_

 _The Scientist does not answer for what seems like vorns to the youngling. They simply scroll through a datapad, before clicking something upon it. When, finally, they do speak, their voice is hushed and eerie within the darkness of the room: "It is time for me to depart. This is happening sooner than anticipated…"_

 _ **"De-depart? Vhere a-are jou going?"**_

 _His creator does not answer, simply removes a chip from their datapad and inserts it into the port at the back of the youngling's helm without so much as brushing the cone around his neck. His optics—even the empty socket—widen with the action, frame tensing and digits curling into fists as code is sent into his processor. "Where I am going is unimportant…" they murmur, though Blitzwing no longer pays heed to the words as he stares straight ahead, denta bared just in the slightest._

Thump!

 _The elder Cybertronian jerks to their pedes at the sound, looking down at the datapad once more, and then the Triple-Changer prototype. They are out of time! They earn a pained gasp from the youngling when they forcibly remove the chip from his helm, watch as he nearly falls forward, but is held in his position by the chains connecting his wrists to the wall behind him. His helm lolls and wings droop as he seems to be barely holding onto consciousness. The code, now inserted into his processor, works within his memory-banks as the Scientist leaves the room in a hurry. Images and voices begin to fade and alter; the faceplate of his creator becomes nothing but an eerie shadow, and their voice undecipherable. His memories of his frame-builder are tampered with—he was not supposed to remember them..?_

 _Where were they going?!_

 _~.~.~_

~I must haff drifted off…~ _the youngling thinks to himself as his optic opens, wings giving a few little twitches._

~Jou don't say?~ _the other voice mutters from in his processor, though for the time being does not seem to attempt taking over his frame._

 _"Hey! Over here! We haven't searched this one, yet."_

 _The youngling's wings flare out to the sides at an unfamiliar voice from outside the room, accompanied by multiple sets of pedesteps and scraping as whoever is now within the lab attempts forcing the door into the room open._

 _"It's not budging! Hey, can you go get Two-bit or Slaggit?"_

 _A rush of pedesteps as whoever is spoken to rushes off, and soon returns while accompanied by a heavier set of steps._

 _"Oi! 'At is it at ye need 'gain, 'Tock?" a far gruffer voice questions, belonging to the newcomer._

 _Blitzwing backs up a bit as a conversation goes on between four or five different mechs from outside his current residence. Who are they? They are not any of the other Series—u-unless he is offline..? Or…dreaming? If either of those were the case, then…why does it still seem so_ real _?_

Crash! _The prototype jumps as the one to sound the largest rams his shoulder against the door—over, and over, and over again. The youngling's optic widens as the door dents inward farther with each assault against it from the outside, before he yelps and scrambles as far from it as the his heavy chains would allow when it flies into the room. The mech to have been knocking it in falls forward, only to catch himself with massive dactylas. Piercing green optics lock onto the youngling's single carmine one, whilst the mech's large wings prick with surprise._

 _A much smaller mech vaults over his far larger companion who is clearly some sort of cargo plane, looking as though ready to begin collecting supplies that may be in the room, but he stops dead. A pair of crimson optics, widened in shock, rest upon Series Eleven._

 _"Hey, uhh…Commander? Yeah, we got a surprise… Compass is sending you our exact coordinates now…"_

 _The small, blue-armored mech outstretches a dactylin with long, graceful digits and inches forward bit-by-bit toward the prototype. "Hey, what are you doing in here? Who are you?"_

 _As that mech moves closer, Blitzwing's optic brightens, and they dilate with a soft whirring, the white light in the middle expanding with the fear he holds._ _ **"Wh-who are jou?!"**_ _he demands, backing away from the other mech. He has a strange symbol on his forehead, and the enormous cargo plane-mech behind him has a similar one upon his chest… Fearful of these new Cybertronians, Blitzwing cries out as the other face and the voice in his head belonging to it takes control and gives a low, threatening growl once he regains his senses. Both turrets angle downward upon his shoulders, aiming at the smaller mech._ _ **"Back ze frag off, or I'll blow off jour slagging helm!"**_

~.~.~

~.~.~

 **AN:** Well, it appears that Blitzwing may just be able to leave the lab, hmm?


End file.
